


Now You're Too Sweet

by agent_izhyper



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Barista!Derek, Derek's delish pastries, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, barista!Laura, black coffee, oblivious!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_izhyper/pseuds/agent_izhyper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles is thoroughly confused and awkwardly misinterprets the situation, and has fallen in love with Derek's heavenly baked goods before he even knew (let alone fell for) Derek Hale. Also, first meetings are a mess and the universe hates him, but nothing new there, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now You're Too Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, looks like I’ve been pulled onto the coffeeshop fanfic-trope bandwagon. Something which I never thought would happen – don’t get me wrong, I love coffee shops in all their lovely caffeinated glory, but I’ve never much been one for coffeeshop AUs. *pokes Sterek* I blame these adorable idiots.
> 
> (yo! find me on tumblr [here](http://deathby-stiles.tumblr.com) :3)

Stiles isn’t too bad at acclimating to a new environment. Considering he was born, raised, and lived all his pre-college life in a small town in California where everyone knows everyone and the kids you start primary school with are the kids you stick with until you graduate. It hadn’t been _bad_ – not that he has any other reference to go by – but it was all too familiar and getting out into the big bad city of NYC had been a thrill and a bit of a terror.

Well. He isn’t alone, at least. He and Scott had bonded back in first grade and it stuck through the years, so it was only natural that they both came up to New York for college, bunking together (as if anyone straight out of Beacon Hills can afford a place on their own in _this_ city) and struggling through their different classes. Having a familiar face there every day is a relief, even if they do Skype their other friends and their respective parents whenever they have time.

Familiarity is a big thing, though, which is why once Stiles discovers the downright _heavenly_ coffee shop one block down from their apartment one harried morning of _too many essays_ and _not enough sleep_ he claims the little place his favourite and gets his morning caffeine fix there every day.

Today he has his first class in the afternoon, so he lets himself sleep through Scott’s rushed (as usual) departure in the morning – likely running almost late because he’d been texting Allison again and hadn’t noticed the time. It happens every other day. Stiles got over ribbing him for it after the second week, partly because Scott has the power of his unreal puppy eyes and partly ( _mainly_ ) because those two are sickeningly sweet and Scott’s not above reading out Allison’s messages in the same lovestruck way that he’s had ever since meeting her back at school. And Stiles can only take so much of their cuteness before he feels the urge to book himself an appointment with the dentist to make sure he hasn’t gotten a Scott-and-Allison induced cavity as a result.

Anyway, Stiles happily sleeps in, getting up at 9 because he’s hungry and also because he needs to read over the essay he had finished off last night. A quick poke around the kitchen reveals an entirely not-shocking amount of nothing so he grabs his jacket and his laptop bag and heads down to his favourite coffee haunt.

As Stiles opens the doors to the small place, breathing in the warm air smelling of coffee beans and cupcakes, and strides to the counter with an easy grin and a ready quip to his favourite barista (okay, so she’s the only barista he ever gets served from, the other being a younger girl who only works weekends and evenings) only for it to flicker into a small frown when he reaches the counter. Stiles blinks and finds himself facing a bored-looking guy, probably only a few years older than him, dark hair and green eyes and _wow_ those cheekbones, with the type of ruggedly handsome five-o’clock shadow Stiles expects on models.

The guy raises a heavy eyebrow and Stiles takes a step back, subtly lifting a hand to rub at his cheek and make sure he isn’t _drooling_ or something else incredibly embarrassing (as if the obvious gaping isn’t enough), clearing his throat as he does so. “Uh, hi,” he says lamely. Almost slaps a hand to his face, because if the guy had looked unimpressed _before_ , it’s nothing to what he looks _now_. Stiles glances around the almost empty shop, almost desperately, for anything to help him stave off the impending awkwardness he can just _feel_ threatening to consume him. “Laura isn’t in today?”

The eyebrow falls to join its equally thick brother in a scowl that looks permanently etched onto the guy’s ( _way too fucking pretty_ ) face. “No.”

“Right.” The _obviously_ is well implied. Stiles huffs an impatient breath and forces himself to get this over and done with. “I’ll have a tall black. Blackest you can make it without, you know, risking a heartattack.” 

The guy (who, yeah, really needs a name but Stiles gets the feeling inquiring after it won’t get him much of an answer, so he dubs him Hot Barista for now – what, he still hasn’t had his morning coffee yet, no-one can judge him) doesn’t deem him with so much as a nod in response, just sets about making the drink. He looks like he’d expected Stiles to order and then wander off to one of the cute little tables lined up against the window, but Stiles just shrugs off his laptop bag and perches on one of the stools in front of the small stretch of counter, his usual spot.

Well. His usual spot when _Laura’s_ working, because over the weeks they have bonded over the various topics Stiles can bring up in the time he’s at the coffee shop before he needs to leave for his first class, and he’s come to look forward to their easy conversations – filled with light banter and plenty of bitching over huge-ass cities and the too-preppy-douches they’ve encountered.

“So, are you new here?” Stiles asks because silence and him don’t agree much, as he opens his laptop on the bench top and pulls up his essay.

The new (hot) barista grunts a yes (Stiles assumes it’s a yes) and shoves the cup down in front of him. His customer service is awful; Stiles wonders why Laura even hired this guy.

“Thanks!” He digs into his pocket for his wallet, almost falls off the stool in the process (it’s a _tight_ pocket, not his fault!) and comes close to dropping his laptop onto the ground. Eventually, though, after a struggle in which he shoves the laptop back with one hand and juggles the wallet that’s about to slip out with the other, Stiles manages to pull out enough notes for the coffee. He straightens up and hands them to the Hot Barista, who Stiles thinks might break something if he manages to look even more unimpressed than he does at the moment. Stiles, through years of practice, ignores his totally judging _you are an idiot_ look and says cheerfully, “Wake up on the wrong side of bed this morning?”

Hot Barista scowls at him, takes the money and moves down the counter to the cash register. Stiles does not mourn the absence of his direct (seriously, though, _looming_ is a word that describes him perfectly, and that’s from behind the fucking bench top) presence. Maybe a little bit his face, though. And those damn  _arms,_ like isn't it illegal somewhere?

“Or you’re always like that,” he mumbles to himself, looking back at the screen and taking a sip of his coffee. Or, y’know, maybe more than a sip. Like, a mouthful. He isn’t really paying enough attention (he blames the stupid essay, and he could have _sworn_ that this sentence actually made perfect sense yesterday), until his mouth is filled with scalding hot liquid that he has no choice but to _swallow_ and- yep, there goes his throat.

“Aaaahh shitshit _shit_!” He swears around a burning tongue (says goodbye to precious tastebuds for a couple of days, _dammit_ ) and flails around helplessly until a glass of water lands in front of him and he dives for it. The cool water is _beautiful_ and he may or may not moan in relief. He sets the empty glass down and looks up to find Hot Barista watching him with an actual _expression_. Granted, his eyebrows are still drawn together, but instead of a grumpy frown it’s more of a bemused one, and Stiles shrugs sheepishly. “Thanks for the water, man. That was seriously hot.”

And then winces mentally, because, _no shit_.

Hot Barista clearly shares the sentiment. He rolls his eyes and says flatly, “It’s _coffee_.” Then he scoops up the glass and heads back to presumably dump it in the sink.

Stiles makes a face behind his back – of course Mister Silent-and-Broody can throw more _sass_ in two words than anyone should be able to. He returns to his thesis and cautiously takes a _sip_ of his coffee this time, wincing as the still-hot-but-not-scalding drink passes over his raw-feeling throat. His tongue is just numb right now. With a sigh, he sets it aside to cool down and gets to work in revising, only remembering his coffee when the noise of more customers makes him look up from his laptop and realise he’s been sitting here for an hour now, and his coffee is beyond edible in temperature, though he does try. A few grimaces later, he sighs and discards the drink regretfully, packs up his laptop, and shoots a last glance towards Hot Barista. He’s serving the two young women at the counter, and he doesn’t look any more interested by them than he had before, so Stiles chalks it down to the man’s _sparkling_ personality.

He’s clearly a charmer.

Stiles chuckles to himself and leaves, wonders if Laura will be back by tomorrow or not, because as amazing as this guy is to look at, his dark-and-angsty silent vibes are so not something Stiles wants to deal with on an early morning. Maybe ever.

* * *

The next morning has Stiles stumbling down the road to the coffee shop, barely awake yet, and as he reaches the building he peers through the windows and groans to himself. Sure enough, there’s the Hot Barista right there, in all his silent broody glory, sitting at the counter and tapping away angrily at his phone. Or maybe just texting someone. Stiles is pretty convinced the _angry_ is just his default expression, at least in this place.

He takes a breath before pushing the door open, hearing the familiar jingle above it, and tells himself that he is not going to make a complete fool of himself today. Yesterday had been a... bad day. He’d been thrown off by this new barista and his in-your-face hotness, and today he isn’t going to choke on smouldering coffee or- or _anything_.

“Hey, again, dude.” Stiles nods at him. He gets a glance in return, something that’s _almost_ like an eye roll (like Stiles doesn’t even warrant the effort put into a full eye roll, and just who does this guy think he is, anyway?). “Jeez, did Laura hire you on the basis that if you stand here and look pretty customer count will go up? ‘Cause I can tell you now, buddy, that whole _customer service is beneath me_ attitude is _so_ not helping.”

This, at least, earns him a full-on glare and the guy puts away his phone. Stiles pointedly doesn’t follow its path down to the pocket of his seriously well-fit jeans. (Much.) “Are you ordering anything?” he asks. Wait, no, _asks_ implies a certain degree of _manners_ , what this guy does is _demands_. Stiles isn’t even sure there’s a question mark at the end of that sentence, he feels like he’s being told to _order a drink or else_.

It’s insulting, so of course he snarks right back.

“No, I just decided to pop in and critique your social skills, which are _so lacking it’s not funny_.” Which... okay, maybe a little rude, but hey – it’s early, and Stiles doesn’t have _anything_ in his stomach yet _at all_ , and his first class is with the lecturer who drones and puts him to sleep, which of course means he gets practically nothing done and has to review the notes he’s supposed to get done during that class from elsewhere, and- yeah.

The Hot-but-Rude Barista actually _snarls_ at him. Stiles takes a bewildered moment to wonder _where the fuck did Laura get this guy_. Maybe he’s her boyfriend – he’s noticed a distinct pattern of jackassery in the three boyfriends she’s dated in the time he’s known her, all of which lasted a week at most until she realised the extent of their respective douche-ness. This guy’s good-looking enough that he and Laura definitely make a striking pair, but Stiles doesn’t know why Laura would have her new boyfriend working in her place.

“Is Laura okay?” he asks after a moment in which Hot Barista sets a cup under the coffee machine.

A narrow-eyed look over his shoulder precedes the somewhat cautious, “She’s fine.”

Stiles nods. Wants to ask more, but figures that if this guy _is_ her boyfriend then he really doesn’t want to give him the impression he’s into her, lest he mess with Stiles’ coffee or something equally horrific. And Stiles needs that coffee, like, yesterday, so he stays quiet.

On the Laura front, anyway.

Stiles glances around at the rack of baked goods and contemplates them. Laura had told him how they’re all homemade recipes, learned from her mom and aunt. He’s got to give those ladies due credit – the pastries are _mouth-watering_. “Hey, can I get one of those croissants, too?”

Hot Barista looks over to the ones he’s pointing to and deposits Stiles’ coffee in front of him before snagging the croissant and delivering it as well in a paper bag. Stiles has his wallet out already (yeah, okay, so he’s learned his lesson from yesterday) and pays for them both silently. He’s in more of a hurry today, his class starts less than an hour and it takes a while to reach that part of the campus.

“Thanks,” he mutters to the guy before striding out.

Well. At least no one and nothing almost fell this time.

* * *

Stiles has to skip his morning coffee the next day thanks to a rough night and a consequent late start that has him cursing as he shoves his things into his bag before rushing out of the flat, leaving behind a bleary, lost Scott, who whines a mumbled _“too early_ ” and rolls back over to fall asleep. Stiles envies his class-free day.

Of course, he does need _some_ sort of caffeine fix in the day so he has to resort to the crappy kind that most college bachelors live off of. It leaves him craving the rich taste of Laura’s coffee for the rest of the day and night.

He and Scott have class at the same time so they leave for the coffee shop together.

“Laura’s not here,” Scott says in surprise once they reach it and venture inside. Scott doesn’t come here nearly as often as Stiles does, but he’s been enough to familiarise himself with her – Stiles swears she liked him better, and the one time he mentioned it she just laughed and said, “Have you seen your best friend? He’s practically a _puppy_ , Stiles, he’s just too adorable.” Of course Scott’s puppy dog eyes have people wrapped around his little finger. Stiles just _knows_ that Laura tops off his lattes with extra cream, the way Scott loves it, and it really isn’t fair that his favourite barista in the world (no, he doesn’t _suck up to her_ , what are you on about) favours his best friend over him.

...But then, well, it _is_ Scott.

“Nah, but that guy’s been serving in her place instead,” Stiles says, nodding at the Hot Barista. He looks a bit more rumpled today than he had before, his Henley top wrinkled at the bottom, thick dark hair not as carefully coifed as it was, and he looks like he hasn’t bothered trimming his manly scruff for a couple of days. Stiles wonders if Laura’s out of town, maybe, and that’s why her boyfriend isn’t looking as up to par as usual. (Not that he cares, but it’s an amusing little thought, this guy prepping himself up for her and then not giving the time of day to anyone else.)

Of course, he still manages to look as flawless as ever. Stiles curses the universe in his head. Some people just get all the luck in the looks department, though he seems to have skipped the line where people were inserted with a charming _personality_.

He looks as bored as ever as he takes their individual orders, ignores Scott’s curious looks, and Stiles mutters to his friend, “He’s Laura’s polar opposite.”

He’s positive that he spoke too quietly for Hot Barista to hear, but he doesn’t miss the sharp look sent his way, and Stiles narrows his eyes back in response until the man exhales sharply through his nose and turns back to their drinks.

They sit in their usual stools, Stiles listening to Scott chatter excitedly about how he and Allison have their next break at the same time, and all the things he’d got planned for them to do, because Stiles is an awesome best friend. If he lives somewhat vicariously through his bro’s too-cute relationship then, well, no-one can judge him for that. He’s been sadly single for way too long.

And then their orders are delivered, and Stiles doesn’t miss the way Scott’s face scrunches up just a little bit when he realises that his favourite drink isn’t topped up with cream. He purses his lips together for a moment, before swivelling to the left in his seat and calling out to the Hot Barista, “Hey, uh, do you mind topping Scotty’s cappuccino with cream, here?” He jerks his head at Scott’s cup, and grins when Scott turns him happy-puppy-beam to him.

The barista’s eyebrows furrow at the request. Stiles guesses he doesn’t get much more than orders and thanks from his customers, and he really doesn’t care. Scott gets his cream. Stiles’ grin turns into a bit of a smirk as he tells Hot Barista in not-so-conspiratorial tones, “He’s like a kicked puppy the whole day without it. Thanks.”

“Hey!” Scott protests, whacking him lightly on the shoulder. Stiles laughs at him. The barista just stands there and stares at him with the most bewildered expression Stiles has seen on his face so far. Or maybe it’s just the most _expressive_ , with the lack of glaring and the confused tilt to his lips. He looks a lot more agreeable when he’s not glowering darkly at the world, though Stiles figures that if _his_ girlfriend left him in charge of her coffee shop for a few days by himself he wouldn’t be too happy, either.

Anyway, without the broodiness right in his face, Stiles feels maybe a little bad about his snark the other day, so he offers an olive branch when he pays for the coffee. “I’m Stiles, by the way.”

Hot Barista looks at him carefully, then nods with the air of someone who’s not used to normal interaction with people. “Derek,” he offers.

Stiles grins at him. “Well, _Derek_ , you don’t happen to have any of those heavenly custard tarts that Laura makes?”

The Hot- no, _Derek_ , gives him a funny look that Stiles can’t quite decipher, but nods and disappears ‘round back where all the beautiful warm smells always come from.

“Where _is_ Laura?” Scott asks, looking up from his phone.

Stiles shrugs, stretching one hand out in front of him on the counter top and tapping his fingers in a steady rhythm. “No idea. She must be busy if she’s got Lover-Boy over there working in her place.”

Scott’s face does a weird thing where his nose scrunches up and he frowns and he just looks really lost. “But- I thought...” Stiles blinks at him but he doesn’t get to hear what Scott thought because Derek’s coming back with the custard tart, and Stiles promptly forgets the conversation.

“Oh my _god_ , I love these things.” Stiles mumbles around the first mouthful, mindful enough not to moan out loud even though the sweet custard taste with the crispy base is fucking _orgasmic_. “Remind me to thank Laura again when she’s back,” he tells Derek after he swallows, not noticing the careful tension around his mouth or the faint hint of pink creeping up his neck.

“Laura...” Derek clears his throat, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks vaguely uncomfortable with the words coming out of his mouth. “Laura doesn’t make the custard tarts.” He pauses and shoots a look at the rack of baked goods. “Or any of the pastries.”

Stiles stops with the tart halfway back to his mouth to stare at him. “She doesn’t?”

Derek presses his lips together and looks like he doesn’t know _how_ to look. Stiles does a double-take sitting down. (It’s quite the feat.)

“Oh my god, _you_ make these?” Stiles manages to stop himself from flailing and dropping the piece of custard-flavoured-heaven in his hand when Derek nods silently.

Stiles probably would’ve stayed gaping at him for longer if Derek’s attention hadn’t suddenly been diverted by the couple who’d just walked in. He turns back to his tart instead, eyeing it in a whole new light.

God, Laura’s really found herself a keeper this time. Stiles thinks almost enviously that _he’d_ keep Derek around too if he made him pastries all the time.

Beside him, Scott laughs softly at a text from his One-True-Love-and-Soulmate and Stiles immerses himself in the custardy goodness before him once more. Who needs love, anyway.

* * *

After that, it’s like having exchanged names is a step forward from the barrier of grumpy hostility that Derek had been at before. Stiles can actually refer to him as a _person_ now, instead of the Hot-Dark-and-Broody Barista guy, which means that when he sits at the counter to wait for his coffee and occasionally a pastry or two now, he also starts to ramble about anything and everything like he did with Laura, and the guy has this totally sassy brand of unique humour that cracks Stiles up.

Derek isn’t much of a talker, he realises after a couple of days (“So are you _usually_ all silent and glower-y or are you trying to maintain that first impression?” Stiles asks casually, only to get an unamused raised eyebrow in reply, and he amends with a, “Okay, then. Naturally broody. That’s cool, too.”) but he also doesn’t tell Stiles to shut up – or, well, not in so many words. Stiles has a suspicion that every new pastry shoved in his face mid-rant is an effort to get him to stop talking, but all it does is make him wax lyrical on the latest mouth-watering food instead.

He doesn’t miss the way Derek stares at him when he does that, and puts it down to a lack of customers showing their appreciation for his pastries. Um. Verbally, that is. Showing their appreciation _verbally_ and-okay, wow, stopping that thought process _right there_.

Needless to say, Stiles almost spills his notes paying after that and rushes out of the shop before realising that he just paid a ten for something worth less than five. It’s a generous tip, as tips for baristas go.

They build up a steady rapport over the next couple of weeks. On the days that Stiles is in too much of a hurry in the morning to do more than grab his black coffee and call out a quick “ _thanks!_ ” on his way out, he comes back in the evening when the rush has lulled down to only a few customers and he can sit at the counter with his laptop, chatting easily about that tutor who’s so much of a perfectionist he nitpicks the _font_ they type in, and about how his best friend had almost gotten his head shot off that one time by Allison’s dad who’s an arms dealer for law enforcement, and a bunch of other random snippets about his life. Meanwhile, Derek lets him try his new brownie recipe, and mentions how he sometimes adds his own spin to the original recipes to add just that much more flavour, and Stiles dubs him a culinary _genius_ , even if Derek insists that he doesn’t _cook_ anything, he just dabbled with sweets and pastries.

For all that Stiles talks about himself, though, he doesn’t actually know all that much about Derek outside the coffee shop – he knows that he’s taking a gap year at the moment, because Stiles had figured he’s too young to have finished studying altogether, and Derek had confirmed that he had been almost finished his course when he had to take an unexpected break due to family issues.

Stiles doesn’t push for more, because he knows that pained face that Derek makes when he says that; it’s an expression he’s seen on his _own_ face too many times after his mother had passed away years ago.

So instead he dives back into the blueberry cheesecake with an enthusiastic and (mostly) joking, “Forget Laura, I’m going to kidnap you and stuff you in my kitchen so I can eat these _all the time_.”

And then he feels kind of guilty when Derek flushes, just a bit.

* * *

So, for all intents and purposes, he really _doesn’t_ know Derek. And that means he shouldn’t have expected him to mention something like, oh, the fact that _Laura’s back today and so he doesn’t have to serve people coffee all day long_. He did, though. Which doesn’t make sense. At all.

Stiles is taken aback by the disappointment that rushes over him when he walks over to the counter that morning and tries to force it aside in lieu of the happiness of seeing Laura again, after... _wow_ , just over three weeks?

“Stiles!” Laura beams at him. Stiles grins back widely, notes the way she’s tied her usually flowing dark hair back, making her familiar green eyes stand out a lot more.

“Hey! How’s my favourite barista in the world been doing?” he teases, leaning onto the counter.

Laura smirks at him, the expression all-too-familiar on her face, and puts a hand to her hip. “Oh, that’s not going to work on me anymore.”

“When did that _ever_ work on you?” Stiles asks, raising his eyebrows, then stops in intrigue. “Wait, what do you mean?”

The wry look Laura fixes him with is _so_ reminiscent of Derek’s raised-eyebrow expression when he thinks Stiles is being an idiot on purpose that Stiles stops short, stricken with the sudden thought that _fuck oh shit have I been flirting with Laura’s hot barista boyfriend for weeks fuck she’s going to slaughter me_ when he realises that Laura’s speaking and pulls out of the dramatic replay of his life flashing by in his mind to catch the words, “-wouldn’t shut up about you.”

Stiles blinks at her. “What?”

Laura fixes him with a longsuffering look that makes him snicker automatically. He tends to have that effect on people. “Do you _ever_ listen if you’re not the one talking, Stiles?”

Stiles considers being affronted at that, but he shrugs with an unconcerned “meh” and sits at his usual spot. “So, where did you disappear to so suddenly and without any warning?”

“Had to take care of some... family business,” Laura says, while counting bills and mixing together a café mocha because she is awesome and multiskilled like that.

Stiles nods and opens his mouth to say... _something_ (completely and utterly _not_ relating to Derek, of course, that is a hole he does not wish to dig himself deeper in), but Laura’s phone is ringing before he has a chance. He sits back instead, smiling gratefully at the tall black she deposits in front of him as she starts speaking, tone light with banter.

“Is this an actual _call_? I thought you were allergic to anything other than texting.”

Whatever the person on the other line says makes her smirk and roll her eyes at Stiles, who sips at his coffee and pretends not to be too interested in who she’s talking to. Or the fact that what he can hear of the voice on the phone sounds distinctly male. Or that-

 _Oh shut up_.

“Really, now?” Laura says into the phone, an undercurrent of amusement in her tone. “Weren’t you the one grumbling about what a waste of time it is?”

The voice sounds like it growls something in response, but Laura laughs.

“Okay, okay, keep your pants on, little brother dear.”

Stiles starts at that. _Little brother_? Since when does Laura have a little brother? Or, maybe not _little_ , judging by what he can hear from the voice over the phone.

“...and you can come in a few days next week. Happy, now?” She smirks again at whatever it is her brother says, then finishes with a teasing “I’ll see you later, Der-bear,” and cuts the line.

Laura tucks her phone away and looks up at Stiles, who cocks his head to the side curiously. “’Little brother’?”

Laura frowns at him a little and then shrugs. “He doesn’t look it, I know, but he’s actually younger than me by a few years. Must be the amazing Hale genes,” she winks.

Stiles is more lost than ever. “I’ve... never seen your brother. Have I?”

“What do you mean?” Now Laura’s looking at _him_ in something like concern, and Stiles frowns and wracks his memory. Boyfriends, yes, he’s met all of them since he started coming here. But brothers? Little or not, he doesn’t recall _any_.

“Nope, pretty sure we’ve never met,” he tells her, then wonders if he should be freaking out a bit because Laura’s staring at him like he’s grown a head.

“ _Derek_ , Stiles,” she says slowly.

 _Maybe that’s my cue to freak out_. His eyes widen and he says quickly, “I don’t know what he told you, but I swear I didn’t mean to- to _flirt with him_ or anything!” And if he flails around a bit and hit his arm on the counter, well, Laura isn’t paying attention to that. Neither is Stiles, actually, because his mind catches up and _what the fuck does Derek have to do with Laura’s little brother who I’ve never met_ and-

“Oh my god,” he says at the same time that Laura adds, “Derek’s my _little brother_ , Stiles. What did you _think_?”

Stiles sits and stares at her for a healthy number of shocked minutes (he’s _processing_ , okay). Then he promptly drops his head down onto the counter with a groan of “ _fuck my life_.”

Laura pats him on the shoulder with a sympathetic, albeit confused, look.

* * *

“Scott!”

Stiles bangs the door to their apartment open and Scott barely looks up from his very intense game of Assassin’s Creed.

“Scott, _he’s her brother_!” Stiles exclaims, waving his arms wildly to convey his the extent of his distress.

Scott nods absently. “Who?”

“Derek! Derek is Laura’s _fucking little brother_!” Stiles wails, pacing the room frantically until Scott sighs and has no choice but to pause his game rather than risk losing it because he can’t see the screen anymore.

“Yeah...” he says slowly, eyebrows furrowed as he looks up at Stiles like he’s waiting for the punchline.

Stiles waves a hand more elaborately in front of his face. “Her _brother_!”

Scott blinks up at him in that _I am a confused and lost puppy please guide me_ way. “I know... and?” he prompts.

Stiles abruptly stops pacing and turns to gape at him.

“Dude? You okay?” his best friend asks in concern, standing to wave a hand in front of Stiles’ face, like he thinks he’s broken or something.

Stiles thinks vaguely that’s not far from the truth.

“You _knew_?” he asks, aghast.

Scott looks taken aback. “ _Dude_. They look _exactly the same_. Except, y’know, Derek’s a guy and Laura’s a girl so not _exactly_ the same, but...” he shrugs.

And Stiles has a mental flashback to the familiar sight of Laura’s colourful eyes, and her high cheekbones, accented by the hair pulled back from her face, and his mind automatically flashes to a mental image of _Derek_ , with the same bone structure and eyes and even that _smirk_ is _the same_.

“Oh my _god_ ,” he groans, dropping his head and covering his face with his hands. He takes a moment to process it before shooting up to glare at Scott, who’s looking more than concerned now. “And you never _said anything_?”

“...Oh my god, dude, did you seriously think he was her _boyfriend_?” Scott shoots back in unveiled glee mixed with a tone that says _my best friend is an idiot_ , which- _hey_ , that tone of voice is Stiles-patented and strictly for use against _Scott_ , he can’t do that.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, dropping onto the couch to not-sulk about it. And definitely to not-think about what he could have _done_ if he’d _known_ before.

“How do you even figure _that_ , man, the guy was all over you,” Scott adds, totally amused, as he sits back down and grabs his controller again.

Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “How would _you_ even know something like that, you were only with me like twice or something.”

Scott chuckles, then looks at him, sees that he’s serious, and full out _laughs_. “I was with you, like, _five times_ , dude! And got ignored for most of the time because you two were busy flirting over _coffee_.”

That is _so_ not true. Stiles scowls at him. “It wasn’t the coffee, it was the pastries, and he wasn’t flirting with me.”

“Sure he wasn’t,” Scott says as he resumes his game, still too amused.

Stiles shakes a finger at him. “Don’t start getting sassy on me, McCall.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, bro.”

Stiles groans and shakes his head, letting his body slide down the couch until his head’s on the armrest and he shoves his feet against Scott’s legs. He laments. _What’s my life coming to?_

* * *

Stiles fully intends to ask Laura about Derek the next morning. But, well, he’s got homework that he hadn’t quite gotten around to finishing in between all the lamenting about his sucky luck and life, and he really does need to get it down before his first class, so he puts it off for tomorrow.

Only to realise that he can’t just- what? Go up to Laura with his usual order and a blasé, “Hey, you wouldn’t mind giving me your brother Derek’s number, would you?” No, because that would be really awkward, and also because he’s sure that Laura will give him _that_ all-knowing evil smirk, like she knows something he doesn’t, and hey- maybe he’ll just run into Derek seeing his sister instead.

Except that Derek’s never come down to the shop to see Laura, not when Stiles realises the person she texts so often _is_ her brother and not another boyfriend. And so Stiles goes through the next few days at silent war with himself, until one particularly bad morning (the usual, awful night, rough wake-up) when he drags himself through the door, falls into his seat, and drops his forehead down on the cool counter with a weary sigh.

Only to lift it suddenly and gape (probably very unattractively) at the broad tight-grey-Henley-clad chest at eye-level. He jerks upright fully, like someone's rigged his chair full of electricity, and follows the familiar line of pectorals up to a chiselled stubbled jaw, amazing cheekbones, and too-amused coloured eyes. (And _wow_ were his lashes always that thick and long? Because _damn_.)

Something in Stiles’ mind short-circuits when Derek ( _fucking Hale_ ) leans across the counter with a toothy grin, showing off (honestly? Kind of adorable) _bunny teeth out of all things_ , and says, “Haven’t changed your order, have you?”

It takes Stiles’ mind a moment to catch up, and then another to drag his eyes away from that mouth up to his eyes, _which isn’t that much better_ , and he may-or-may-not need to clear his throat to make sure his voice is still working. “Um. No?”

“Are you asking me?” Derek asks, definitely amused now, and hey there’s that smirk again.

Stiles shuts his mouth and crosses his arms on the counter (totally not as a support to lean on). “I’m a strictly-black coffee person, dude! My addiction to it will never go away,” he declares.

Derek eyes him thoughtfully, before nodding with a quiet, “ _good_ ” and why does Stiles feel like he just confessed to something more than just _coffee_?

He takes the moment when Derek turns to fix him a cup to take a breath, re-evaluate all of his thoughts and go over their previous interactions in a whole new light because fucking _Hale siblings_ and they're not  _together_ , and seriously, how the hell did he even miss that.

But when Derek hands him his usual with an upwards quirk of the lips Stiles has taken to mean a _smile_ , he can’t get the words past his throat, so he just drinks instead.

“So,” Derek says while watching him, leaning casually against the counter again. Stiles envies the way he can do that so effortlessly. “Laura told me you had a weird misunderstanding.”

Aaaaand, yep, there’s Stiles’ cue to choke on blistering hot coffee _again_.

It’s like the universe is _trying_ to kill him. Death via embarrassment and coffee. Beautiful.

He shoves the coffee away and carefully gulps down the water that appears in front of him, refusing to look at Derek. This is _way_ too similar to that first meeting.

“What even is my fucking life,” he mutters.

To his credit, Derek doesn’t laugh at him, but he does smirk. Stiles glares.

“I hate you,” he grumbles.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Derek offers.

Stiles narrows his eyes, faux-considering, though his heart is trying to run a marathon in his chest. “Brownies?” he asks hopefully.

Derek grins. Like, actually _grins_. Stiles considers he may have actually died on that coffee and this is _not actually happening_ , oh my god. “Brownies,” he confirms. “My place? Friday night?”

Stiles doesn’t bother pretending to think about it. “I’ll be there,” he promises, and grins right back.

And then, because _what the hell, why not_ , he leans over the counter, wraps a hand around the neckline of that _ridiculous_ shirt to pull him in, and kisses Derek enthusiastically right there, in front of the two other customers and –

“Oww fuckfuck _fucking shit!_ ”

\- leaps back automatically when he accidentally spills his abandoned coffee in the process, getting it all down his front. And, as Stiles jumps and flails frantically on the spot from the heat, Derek takes one look at him and doubles over with laughter while passing him a wet rag to clean up.

"That one's on the house," Derek tells him between chuckles.

Stiles pauses in wiping off the burning liquid to narrow his eyes up at him. "You're too sweet,  _Der-bear_."

He takes a perverse pleasure in the pout (yes, that is most definitely a pout, and no-one can say otherwise) that elicits.

It seems oddly fitting, the scene they make.

* * *

 _“_ _Oh_ my god _Derek are these brownies even fucking real, you don’t understand, I would kill someone to get a lifetime’s supply of these. Several someones. I’d have to evade the local police, and my dad’s the_ Sheriff _, because these brownies are my most favourite-“_

_He has to shut up then, because a warm pair of lips are covering his and Stiles drops his brownie so he can attach himself onto Derek properly, tasting the sweet chocolate and coffee and delicious taste that is Derek’s mouth, and hums agreeably when Derek’s lips leave his to nip at his jaw then down his neck, biting and sucking along the way, and Stiles sighs in utter contentment._

_“I take it back. Brownies can take second place._ You _are definitely my most favourite. Ever. In the- oh my god,_ Derek _-“_

_Derek pulls back with a huff of laughter, his breath warm across Stiles’ collarbone. “You don’t stop talking, do you?”_

_Stiles smirks and leans in to bite at Derek’s lower lip, appreciating the throaty growl he gets. “Not unless my mouth is otherwise occupied.”_

_The glint in Derek’s eyes says ‘challenge accepted’._

_(Stiles regrets nothing.)_

 

**Author's Note:**

> *falls back in seat* _it’s done omg._ *cue victory chant* I may or may not have spent all morning-and-afternoon working on this. *pokes it proudly* There are some fucking _amazing_ coffee shop!AUs on here, and my favourite (which, um, isn't actually a _coffee shop_ fic? but shh just go along) is **Fireman Derek’s Crazy Pie [Cheeseburger Baby]** by _owlpostagain_ is the ABSOLUTE BEST THING EVER. I mean, aside from being fucking adorable and also _Derek baking things_ , it has _firefighter!Derek_ *flails and dies* Love that fic so much.
> 
> Yeah, so, I got into an addiction for coffee shop AUs and then I got ambushed by plot bunnies in the shower and _anything is better than studying for future-deciding!exams_ so I thought, y’know, why the hell not.
> 
> And **bam.** Hours later, here’s this fic. xP Really hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it – I haven’t had a long fic flow out like this one did in ages, so, yeah, that was awesome. :) Please let me know what you thought? I’ll give you Derek’s amazing brownies and custard tarts and everything else if you do ;) Y’know, if Stiles lets them go anytime soon. :P
> 
> Cheers, and thanks for reading~! *grins and waves*  
> Iz.
> 
> (NB: I think Derek and Laura _are_ werewolves in this, there's some mention to the super-hearing up there. I was probably supposed to reveal it somehow near the end, but it slipped my mind amidst everything else, so either I’ll come back to it and add that or I’ll write a spin-off/companion piece when I have time. xP)


End file.
